A Walk in the Park
by pretend-to-care
Summary: That's right, it's another Watson-returns-to-Baker-Street fic! Hopefully it's a little bit original. I promise much angst and arguing. No slash, and one sentence of slightly suicidal content. Rated a little high just for that.


**Disclaimer: I do not own John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, or Mary Watson, formerly Morstan. Nor does Baker Street belong to me. But Joseph West does. Not that he's too close to my heart. **

**A/N: This has most certainly been done before, but I haven't read this scenario with quite the same emotions as I've written. I confess I don't read many fics, so my knowledge is limited. Regardless, this seven-page beast is here to entertain and let's hope that's what it does. **

* * *

It was with a tight, nauseating feeling of anxiety in his chest that Watson rode down the street in a cab. He had been peering out of the window for the past fifteen minutes, taking in every familiar sight, sound, and smell, more overcome with memories with each building he passed. There was the bakery, there was the hat shop, there was the inn and the theater. Much had changed, although the basic skeleton of the street remained the same as when he had left.

Watson sighed. It had been far too long.

He was so engrossed in the scenery that he nearly forgot to stop the cab driver. With a shout, he got the man to pull the horses hard to a halt, then collected his hat and cane and stepped out of the cab. Watson paid the driver, told him not to wait, and stood on the sidewalk as the cab trotted away, hesitant to go inside. What state would he find things in? How would he be received? It had been so long….

The doctor huffed. He was making a big deal out of nothing. Compared to some of the things he'd endured, this was a walk in the park.

Watson took fresh courage and marched forward, knocking on the door.

Silence. No reaction, for ten seconds…twenty. Thirty. Thirty-five. He knocked again. A few more tenuous moments passed, and Watson was reluctantly about to leave, when the door flew open without warning.

"I've told you four times, the room has been taken, and—" The woman gasped. "…Doctor Watson?"

Watson gave her a small smile. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson." She looked older than he remembered—a little more wrinkled around the edges, a few more gray hairs among those falling from her bun.

"Doctor!" Mrs. Hudson leapt from the doorway with much more energy than Watson expected from a woman of her years and flung her arms around his neck.

Laughing, he returned the embrace. "It's wonderful to see you again too, Nanny."

"You look wonderful. Very handsome," she said, straightening his lapels. "And these clothes! The practice doing well, I see?"

"Doing marvelously," Watson smiled.

"And what of Mary?"

"Mary's fantastic. We've just had a son."

"A son!" Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands over her mouth. "Oh, Doctor, that's wonderful!"

"Thank you. And what of you? You look tired."

Mrs. Hudson gave him an exhausted smile. "Filling your vacancy has been a chore. We haven't kept a single tenant for more than a month."

"Do you have one at present? I heard you, er…."

"Screaming? Yes, I apologize for that. We've just had a bit of a bidding war these past few days—these are the last empty lodgings in town at present. But yes, there should be someone new coming in a few hours, hence my urgency toward banishing his competitor from the premises."

"I think you did that quite thoroughly," Watson said.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled and hugged him again. "Oh, Doctor, I've missed you. Things haven't been the same."

"Do you mind if I come in?"

"No, no! Of course not!" In her old busy way, she hurried inside. Watson followed behind.

"Would you mind if I put on some tea?" she asked.

"Tea would be fine." Watson's eyes wandered around the house, taking in the changes. Everything was still impeccably clean, although he imagined it took a bit more effort on Mrs. Hudson's part these days. "You changed the wallpaper."

"In the parlor, yes. Finally. It was in terrible shape."

Watson continued making his way aimlessly through the rooms of the ground floor, trying to convince himself that he wasn't stalling. It wasn't working. He sighed and returned to the kitchen.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes?" She knew what he was about to ask.

"Is…is Holmes upstairs?"

Without turning around, she replied with a calm, "Yes, he is."

Watson was silent for a minute. "I'm going to go see him," he murmured eventually.

Mrs. Hudson made no reply.

He backed out of the kitchen and climbed up the creaky steps. He'd missed that sound. As he reached the top of the staircase, Watson glanced to the right—his old rooms, spotlessly tidy for the new tenant—but headed left.

The door was closed, and he knocked. There was an unbearable moment of thick, heavy, stifling silence, and then….

"Enter if you must."

Watson steeled himself and pushed the door open.

The room was dimly lit at best. The blinds had all been drawn and the only light came from a low-burning fireplace. Every surface was covered with a layer of dust the thickness of Watson's thumbnail, every corner housed a large spiderweb. The floor virtually didn't exist, hidden beneath discarded clothing, scattered books, abandoned newspapers, random and mismatched odds and ends. Despite the fire, the room was freezing, and it held the distinct smell of wet, rotting parchment.

Watson took one step into the room and was met with the crunching, rustling sound of paper being crushed underfoot. He looked down and to his astonishment found himself standing in a massive pile of envelopes.

"Cases," came the necessary explanation. "Letters from people with problems. Promises of fame and fortune. Pleas to return to work. Nanny pushes them under the door, and there they stay."

Sidestepping the dismal mountain, Watson approached the fireplace. The two armchairs were there, and his was pitifully empty except for the coat of dust. The other held Holmes.

He was sitting so low in the chair that his head barely reached the middle of the backrest. His face, untouched by the firelight and barely visible, held the beginnings of a beard and moustache, unshaven for weeks. His shirt hung off of him like he was wearing a sail, his body emaciated. The air around him reeked of chemicals, stemming from the bottle in his hand. It wasn't alcohol, or cocaine, which both reassured Watson and worried him even more. Holmes's entire person, as well as the room, held a general feeling of neglect.

"…may I sit down?" the doctor asked after a long, awkward pause.

Holmes was silent.

Watson took his lack of negative statement as a positive one and slowly lowered into the chair. He realized as he did so that he had absolutely nothing to say.

The pair sat for minute after minute, no sound in the room other than the cautious crackling of the fire. For Watson, the quiet was becoming harder to endure with every second. The doctor wracked his brain for something, anything to say, before he was overwhelmed and drowned by the uncomfortable, accusing silence.

"Mrs. Hudson," he finally burst out. "She looks…well."

"She's been sick."

"Oh." Watson blinked. "You…you should have called me."

"What a novel idea. Unfortunately, you were away on holiday."

"…oh."

The silence resumed and Watson quickly went back to searching for something to say. "Mrs. Hudson said…you have a new tenant coming in?"

"Today."

"Yes. Do you know much about him?"

"He's a doctor," Holmes said flatly.

This took Watson by surprise. "Really?"

"A psychiatrist."

This took Watson even more by surprise. "Oh. Have you…have you met him?"

"No."

The doctor responded with a routine, "Oh."

Watson was floundering. His walk in the park was becoming more of a hike through a wild, overgrown jungle. He looked down at his hands, picking at his cuticles. "Well…Mary and I, we…we've just had a son…."

A mixture of emotions, almost tangible, radiated from the man in the armchair next to him. "Is that so?"

"Yes, he's…very…healthy," Watson said lamely.

"Hair like his father, I'd imagine."

"Even redder."

"Mm. What did you name him?"

Watson hesitated. "…John. John…Sherlock…Watson."

Holmes said nothing.

"We thought it was a…good, strong name."

Holmes said nothing.

"After…after you, of course."

"Well, how charitable of you."

Watson was taken aback by Holmes's tone. "…excuse me?"

"What a noble sacrifice, Watson. I bet you're proud of yourself."

"Holmes, what are you talking about?"

"It's awfully nice of you to name your son after me, considering that's the only recognition you've given me since you left."

"Holmes, I didn't—"

The former sleuth sat up straight, startling Watson not only with the sudden movement, but with the mentally unsound look reflecting in his eyes from the firelight. "A year and a half, Watson! Over a year since you packed your bags and headed off in that coach with that woman! And have we heard a _word_ from you in that time? No!"

Now Watson really didn't know what to say. Fortunately and unfortunately he didn't have to, as Holmes was continuing without allowing the doctor a single word.

"Over a year. Five hundred and fifty-three days. That's twenty-one separate tenants I have had to endure. That's sixteen times I have failed to pay the rent and Mrs. Hudson has taken pity on me. That's one thousand, seven hundred and thirty-one cases I have declined. That's twice I have sat on the edge of my bed with a gun in my hand, questioning my sanity. And all because you pushed us from memory."

Here Watson could no longer hold his peace. "Holmes, I…I could never push you from my memory, I only—"

"You forgot about me, Watson. I know it. You know it. You may continue making your excuses until you're blue in the face, but the fact of the matter remains." Holmes stood up. "I mean nothing to you any longer. I am attempting to come to terms with this, and your presence is doing nothing to help me. I ask you to leave at—"

He broke off into a violent fit of coughing, falling back into his chair.

Watson furrowed his brow. "Holmes…are you ill?"

"No," he snarled hoarsely. "I'm fine."

"I came to visit you, Holmes. I came to see you. Do you think I would've done that if I had forgotten you?"

"You should've come sooner," Holmes said. "When Nanny was sick. When I was low. You should've come for Christmas, Watson, for heaven's sakes!"

Watson could do nothing but stare. "I…Holmes, I never meant to—"

"I want you out, Watson!"

The doctor stood. "Holmes, please just listen—"

"OUT!" Holmes reclaimed his bottle just long enough to fling it at Watson. It smashed against the wall behind him and began to dissolve the wallpaper.

Watson beat a hasty retreat to the door. "Holmes—"

Holmes had gotten to his feet and stormed after him, slamming the door in Watson's face. No sooner had he done so when he burst into another fit of coughing and dropped weakly to the floor.

In the hall, Watson's guilt had been replaced with rage. "You know what, Holmes? I told you it would be like this. I told you I wanted some time to myself, to spend with Mary and to get used to things. You said you'd be fine. You said you could handle it. Look at you!"

Holmes lay on his back on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling and listening.

"Perhaps I did leave you, yes. But you're a _grown man_, Holmes. You shouldn't have let things get this bad. _That_ isn't my fault. And if you wanted communication so badly, why didn't you start it? I know you have a brain, Holmes. Use it!"

There was no reply.

Now Watson felt a little guilty, as he always did after yelling at Holmes—earnestly yelling, not merely scolding. Especially now, because he knew there was some truth to what Holmes had said. It had been more than one whole year, and Watson hadn't sent so much as a birthday card. What's more, Holmes was already upset, and sick as well. But he couldn't go back in. Holmes would most likely just throw something at him again, and Watson was still angry.

"Excuse me."

The doctor turned around. "Yes?"

"Are you Mr. Holmes?" A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair stood at the top of the staircase, holding two large suitcases.

"Ah, no, I'm his…no."

"Oh. I hoped I might be able to save time and get introductions over with now."

"You're the new tenant?"

The man nodded. "Doctor Joseph West."

"I'm Doctor John Watson," Watson replied.

"Another medical man, eh? I can appreciate that." Doctor West smiled. "If you'll excuse me, however, I must unpack. I'm sure I'll meet you again sometime." He edged into his room and set down his bags. Watson heard him mutter under his breath, "Neat enough, I suppose, but there's always room for improvement…." And with that he shut the door.

Watson knew already, without a doubt, that this new tenant would depress Holmes even further. A psychiatrist, and an obsessively tidy one. Life would be even more miserable.

The doctor sighed. The least he could do was apologize.

Before his resolve crumbled, Watson opened the door again.

Once inside, he furrowed his brow. "Holmes…why are you on the floor?"

"Because I'm sick of furniture," Holmes mumbled.

Watson replied with another resounding, "Oh." He stared hard at a sock a few inches from Holmes's head. "I met the new tenant just now."

"Mm."

"He seems perfectly…horrible."

"Mmm."

"I doubt you'll be happy."

Holmes laughed once. "Do you now."

Watson knelt down next to him. "Holmes, look at me."

He turned his head and stared Watson piercingly in the eyes. The doctor tried not to let this faze him.

"You were right. It's been too long a time to go without contacting you. I should have made an attempt as well. I could give many explanations, but I don't want to argue any more. I believe I have made several valid points, but I…I understand."

"Do you, Watson?" Holmes demanded. His gaze softened and he swallowed. "You realize that you and Nanny are my only family, aside from Mycroft, who lives like a hermit. You, Watson, are occasionally my dog, sometimes my father, and constantly my brother. To be left behind like that…." Holmes's voice broke and he cleared his throat quickly. "I confess that I…I could not handle it."

Watson reached and took hold of Holmes's wrist, pulling him into a sitting position and from there into a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry, old boy."

Holmes rested his chin glumly on Watson's shoulder, staring at the hole still being burnt in the wall by the contents of the bottle he'd thrown at his brother-father-dog-friend. Inwardly, Holmes was overjoyed that Watson hadn't forgotten him, that he had come to see him and that he still loved him. But he also wished the doctor hadn't come, for now it would be twice as hard to watch him leave again.

For a moment he wondered if he could convince him to stay. That hadn't worked the first time, though, so it was doubtful it would work the second. Then he considered tying him up and keeping him in the closet, but that seemed a little drastic. Holmes sighed. It looked as though he would just have to accept the options this once.

"Holmes? Hello, Holmes?"

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"I've been talking to you this whole time and you haven't heard a word I've said, have you."

"Uhh…no, I'm afraid not."

Watson chuckled, shaking his head and releasing Holmes. "What could possibly be so distracting as to divert your attention from the prodigal doctor?"

"The many ways Nanny is going to kill me," Holmes said mournfully, pointing at the growing hole in the wall.

Watson glanced at it and winced. "If you don't mind my asking, what on _earth_ was in that bottle?"

Holmes shrugged. "Just a complicated cocktail of volatile chemicals. The sixth prototype."

"…you haven't been drinking it, have you?"

"Yes, actually. It's the only thing that brings me any sleep these days."

Watson stared at him in disbelief. "Well that's why you're sick, you fool!"

The sleuth rolled his eyes. "No, Watson, it was the fourth prototype that made me sick."

The doctor rubbed his temples. "Why couldn't you just take a normal sleeping pill?"

"Because it reminded me too much of you," Holmes said matter-of-factly.

"Well, your little chemical compound is burning holes in the walls. Imagine what it's doing to your insides."

"I try not to."

Watson sighed. "You need a doctor, Holmes."

"I've needed a doctor for the past five hundred and fifty-three days," Holmes replied.

"I'm serious, Holmes."

"I'm well aware."

"You'll need extensive treatment," Watson said briskly. "We'll have to flush the chemicals from your body, and test for any internal damage to your digestive system as well as your other organs. Do you remember what you put in it?"

Holmes shrugged again. "A little of everything."

Watson hated to think what 'everything' meant. "I'll need you to recreate a sample so I may test it. And once we know the damage it's done, your recovery time could be lengthy." Watson stood up and brushed himself off. "I should take you back to Cavendish Place, just to observe your recovery more closely. And to get you away from this psychiatrist fellow."

Holmes stared at Watson in disbelief. "…you're taking me with you? Watson…really?"

It was the doctor's turn to shrug. "If Mary doesn't mind."

"She won't!"

Watson smiled crookedly. "But first of all, you'll have to clean this place up."

Holmes huffed. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

"However, that can wait," Watson said. "Mrs. Hudson began making tea nearly an hour ago and it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Why don't you join us?"

Holmes climbed to his feet. "Oh, well, if I must."

They started down the stairs together. Watson had returned to the park.

"By the way, Holmes, you said Mrs. Hudson was part of your family as well. What role does she play?"

"Nanny is a nanny, and that's all there is to that. But incidentally, Watson, you are oftentimes my mother as well, and too frequently my wife. I left those out, however, as I didn't want you to think I was gender-confused along with sick and depressed."

"Excellent thinking, Holmes."

"Yes, I know."

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**Aww, the promised happy ending. And if any of you caught it, it was purely accidental that John Watson, M.D. and Joseph West, M.D. have the same initials. The lovely disoriented-problem caught that in her beta reading and proved once again that I have psychic abilities beyond my own consciousness. But never mind that! I hope you had fun. R&R, plz. :)**


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